


like floods of life in frost

by OldLace



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Horribly late submission, Introspection, Post-TDTL, Veronica Mars Holiday Gift Exchange 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3441992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldLace/pseuds/OldLace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The knitting was supposed to keep her busy. It was one of those things people essentially include in a mental list of Things To Do When Settling Down, or in Veronica’s case, Things To Do When Your Chosen Career Path Isn’t As Exciting As You Initially Thought It Would Be.</p><p>Or, the one in which Veronica learns to keep a hobby, play angry Two Truths and One Lie, trust her instincts and sing her feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like floods of life in frost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilamadison11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilamadison11/gifts).



> My everlasting thanks to [nikatsu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nikatsu) who puts up with me, my incomplete ellipses and my other atrocities. You are my Yoda, yes, you are.

 

> _in quiet,_  
>  in kindly.  
>  We are the house gift-wrapped in welcome mats.  
>  Your dinner’s on the table in thanks of that  
>  and the loaves of chocolate toast,  
>  the Book of Job and of Jet Propulsion,  
>  raincoats floating in a rocket ship,  
>  playing naked checkers in bed.  
>  It is an utterly epic arrival  
>  every time I get to see you again.

_-_ **Buddy Wakefield** _, In Landscape_

 

 

If Veronica was a character in a Dr. Seuss story, she’s convinced she wouldn’t be the Grinch. If she was given a choice to decide which one, she thinks she’d rather be The Lorax, because, Al Gore-ish hero complex tendencies aside, The Lorax is just _awesome_. In a holiday setting, maybe Cindy-Lou-Who, the cute, blonde girl who’d saved Christmas by melting the Grinch’s heart by the sheer goodness of her heart. And her cuteness, obviously.

It’s a strange realization, in fact, as Veronica sits in the saggy brown settee in the Mars Investigation Office, clicking away at knitting needles that she might be the Grinch, because she really is starting to hate Christmas.

Well, not _hate_ hate. On one hand, she’s only just re-experiencing a less than soggy Christmas without abominable cabbies and crazy heartless retail shoppers, God bless Southern California. New York is New York, but to be honest, it stinks and is a terrible place to be nursing longing and regrets while huddled with the holiday-frenzied masses. There's also something to be said about spending the holidays with an inner sense of rightness, as if the universe banished her perturbations over her life decisions, finally gave her a stamp of approval, and asked her to go to town. True enough, it has been an eventful year, culminating with one Logan Echolls to warm her up just in time for Christmas.  Veronica loves Christmas in general. She’s should be ecstatic for this one, and her little side project of nylon and wool is evidence that she’s on the way to feeling exactly that.

Anyway, if there's a Grinch in this story, that honor would have been given to Cliff McCormack when he seduced Veronica’s father into going into a Ballroom-themed Cruise for the most of December, including Christmas day.

Veronica snarls at the thought while furiously unfurling another ball of wool from her yarn supply, which she seems to be burning way fast.

Keith had at least acted sombre in front of Veronica when he told her, and even sat her down in the sofa. In hindsight, maybe she should have suspected just as much. That particular night, Keith had buttered her up with a copious helping of manicotti during their regular Father Friday Funsies. And Logan, who, _the wretch_ , might have been in on it, volunteered – _volunteered_ – to do the dishes – _do_ the _dishes_.

“But honey, Cliff and I had been looking forward to this for a while now, kind of like a graduation present to myself,” Keith says.

Veronica’s eyebrow shoots up in preliminary reply. “You finally attended that gourmet school without telling me? Gonna make gourmet mac and cheese now?”

Keith smiles at that. “I love the orange packet stuff. You know this.” He prods on, “but then sometimes, the orange stuff graduates from law school, and so a guy has to be proud and celebrate, you know? Take a break, maybe learn the foxtrot.”

Her eyebrows shoot up even higher at that, if that was possible. “So I’m the mac and cheese in this scenario now? Your one and only daughter, a packet of instant dairy substitute?” Keith had the decency to bow his head and hide his chuckle for a second.

He clears his voice and looks at her before answering with a resolute but quiet voice.

“I’m proud of you, kiddo. Maybe it has taken me some time to, uh, put some light on my perspective on the matter. I needed to see change for what it is, and I needed to realize you don’t need training wheels anymore. And I need space, and I figured this will help. So… so it’s not about breaking traditions, really. I’m still expecting you to bust out the Padres ornaments like we used to.”

She clutched him in a tight hug right then. She supposes she should be glad for her father’s relatively quick acquiescence on her wishes. Relatively. Veronica knows it has been almost a year since she broke the status quo established over the course of 9 years, and it’s the first Christmas she has been home in the same amount of time. Keith had never second guessed her belief, had always employed the _laissez faire_ when it came to Veronica. Veronica has only ever had Keith as constant for the longest she’d remembered. Now she’s back in Neptune and had promptly changed her mind about how she would live the rest of her life, and she can’t really say no to how her father dealt with her decision-making approach.

“Don’t worry Veronica, I’m making him take his meds. I’ll even kiss his boo boos away. I hear they’re quite effective,” Cliff butts in, his face not lifting from the day-old newspaper he was not even pretending to be reading.

And that had been the end of that; Veronica bade Keith and Cliff off to their fancy cross-Atlantic cruise care of one of Cliff’s old client who had landed a big fortune, apparently _._ Logan had hugged her afterwards and knowingly smiled at her, murmuring something about being proud of her for not throwing a hissy fit.

_So._

The repetitive click-click of her steel needles in the silent brick confines of the Mars Investigations Office somehow reminds her of the sound of nails scratching peels off a blackboard, which must be the audible form of her degeneracy. And her boredom over her own degeneracy. But basically, the boredom.

The knitting was supposed to keep her busy. It was one of those things people essentially include in a mental list of Things To Do When Settling Down, or in Veronica’s case, Things To Do When Your Chosen Career Path Isn’t As Exciting As You Initially Thought It Would be.

 _Busy hands, busy minds_ , they said, but that really didn’t help appease the suffragettes, Veronica thinks, her maladroit hands flicking faster now. _‘Nothing unmanly about the knitting, no sir!’_ said The Lorax, and so be it, she thinks. Veronica’s mind seems to be speeding at record-breaking velocity, going from blank to Dr. Seuss and her father’s bromance to her thinly-veiled general disappointment with her current state of life.

Because really, December? Not so conducive for the PI business. There had been a marked decline in the number of cases for the past days, even sparser than usual. It’s as if people suddenly believed Santa’s going to catch them doing naughty deeds. She’s a bit disappointed for the lack of clients there and a bit disappointed in herself for her lack of faith in humanity.

Never let it be said that she’s a war freak, because she’s not. Veronica Mars is a well-adjusted 29 year old who has regular hobbies and a regular job and a regular well-adjusted adult romantic relationship. If that job happened to entail following cheating spouses and solving murder mysteries every so often, then people should expand their definition of normal. It’s not as if she particularly delights in the misery of others, but she enjoys the thrill of the chase, above all others; finding a way to make sense of the facts. If these things coincide, she isn’t prepared to think about it just yet.

Because boredom, Veronica starts to realize, is a multiple-headed beast, rearing its ugly head from the relative peace she’d maintained. There’s New York boredom while living the wrong kind of life and wearing the wrong set of clothes. It was kind of like playing tea party over at a playmate’s house; she’d played it with disinterested coolness, and when she played long enough, she got tired and went home.  Now that she’s here at Neptune, she couldn’t just turn on a metaphorical TV where she previously saw her life as an action movie and then sleep it off. This is the life she chose, after all.

For now, though, there’s Christmas, and Veronica’s going to make the most out of it. Veronica is going to kick Christmas’s ass one Continental stitch at a time, because she has chosen a creative outlet, and she’s sticking with it. Veronica got a P.I. license at 19, a Juris Doctor degree and a Vanity Fair profile at 29, damn it, and she can wield this deformity of nature into submission, and she will wear her knitting-related injuries like battle scars when she wraps her hand made gift to her boyfriend in time for Christmas.

So when Veronica finally stitches her last inch of yarn into her work — she definitely burned through her yarn supply faster than she’d expected — she lets out a growl of frustration. Some things should take more time to gauge, Veronica ponders, and maybe she’s not just talking about yarns, or Dr. Seuss stories.

 

***

 

It turns out that she “had too much tension in her hands,” and that next time, she should probably “relax and let the work take over your mind, it can be, like, totally zen,” or so the green-haired hipster manning the local yarn shop just on the edge of the warehouse district had said. Veronica thinks she’s totally zen, because she managed not to taser the man’s underarms.

It does make sense that her stitches run tighter than expected, thus using up more yarn. But still.

Stashing her mint supply of smooth-plied yarn and a newfound knowledge about yardage in the passenger seat of her car, Veronica leaves the store, even managing to thank the cashier. Veronica can practically feel her Grinch-like outlook descending three notches. She’s feeling extra Christmassy now, in fact, that she even stops to the grocery to shop, which has been Logan’s unspoken chore since they’d started living together. Or, had fallen into living in sin together. For five months straight. Under her own roof, actually. Somehow, she can’t help but smile at how far they have come—Veronica Mars supporting Logan Echolls by being the one to pay the rent.

The thing about living with Logan Echolls is that it’s like listening to a well-loved song after the longest time: the familiarity of it is endearing but the newness of hearing it again somehow baffles her. Logan himself has always been a study in contradictions. He’s a familiar sight and a mystery waiting to unravel at any single time, and Veronica thrills in always having to guess. Growing up, he had been the most boisterous kid and yet also the most reticent of all. At their worst, Logan was the man Veronica treated like her worst enemy but still whose life she felt compelled to save. And sure, Veronica could keep categorizing these versions of them into the tiny pigeonholes of their history in her head, but Logan makes it hard to keep up. Like: waking up to Logan hunched up in concentration over the Sunday crossword. Half-naked. _With glasses_. Veronica had taken a moment to orient herself the first time that had happened; had needed to remind herself that this— _this_ is reality, and not a dream-induced fantasy fulfilling itself. His muscular frame beside her is their nine years of separation in the flesh, but his smiling eyebrows that greeted her when he noticed that she was awake? Veronica could have sworn she was beside his naughty 18-year old self right there and then.

"So, do you know a three-letter word for ‘amorous dalliance’ that ends with an ‘X’?" he'd asked in faux ignorance as he set the wad of newspaper atop the bedside table and then moved to hover over her.

“Are you sure it’s not ‘vex’?” Veronica answered demurely while wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

Had that been the old Logan Echolls, Veronica's sure the crossword would have been forgotten, well, forever, but then she woke up again a few hours later to that same sight, with Logan hunched up holding what appears to be the same crossword with the same burning concentration. Of which, okay, she’s kind of irrationally jealous about, now that she thinks about it.

Winter isn't really winter in Neptune, but that crisp smell of chillier air signals that it has officially arrived. It’s this time of the year that Veronica wishes her own convertible back, as she cruises Neptune’s back streets on her way home in her compact SUV, leaving behind the susurrant humdrum of the warehouse district while the faint glow of the sinking sun’s warmth follows her as she drives. Lights adorning the buildings in the warehouse district are flickering open, extra bright now with the added Christmas lights dancing their own merry tune. Neptune is actually _nice_ sometimes, Veronica thinks, if she could ignore the shady characters loitering here and there. She’d been relishing that elusive moment of peace and savouring the finer points of Neptune, when she spots Logan Echolls’ convertible parked a few meters ahead of her.

Veronica would have recognized that sheen of midnight blue anywhere, her backside being familiarly acquainted with its plush seating for the good parts of the 180 days that Logan was away on deployment, and so she slows down her car to take a good look at the car. At the back of her mind, she thinks that the downside of Logan Echolls being a surprise all the time is that he is a surprise at very inconvenient times. Damn, she had wanted to have at least an hour of knitting done in the apartment before Logan came home, but it looks like he has been on the way home but has taken a little detour here.

She slowly swerves her car to the side of the road, but keeps the engine running. Her mind attempts to recall whether they have had any neighbourly invitations lately, which, both of them being poster children for misanthropy—nope. They’re parked a couple-ish minutes away from home, home being a sizeable apartment unit in Dog Beach, but there are no apartment complexes around here, only duplexes with lawns and fences. She scours her mind for possibilities because Logan was supposed to be bro-ing it out with Dick just this minute, who, as far as she knows, hasn't decided to abandon his prime lot property location lately.

Veronica spends some time considering her options; on one hand, Logan finding her lounging in his Beemer, reclined with her legs resting comfortably in the dashboard—the amused reprimanding she’ll get will be too much to pass up. Tucking a note that says ‘ _Ownage_ _xoxo’_ complete with a kiss mark in is wind shield wiper totally has its merits from when they’ll be having a ‘confrontation’ about it at home. There is a small voice at the back of her mind doubting that the latter scenario will really result to a confrontation of a sexy variety. She bites her lip in remembrance of the old college days of tracking devices. She most definitely would like to think that she has learned the exact protocol to follow when faced with the dilemma of stalking one’s boyfriend, and that lesson can be succinctly summed up in the word DON’T. For a second, she’s overwhelmed by the idea that her desire to be with Logan Echolls would seem to always be coupled with the desire to stalk him at some point in the relationship. Case in point: right about now.

But she isn’t Veronica Mars if she didn’t do anything about it, and really, otherwise it will eat her up to not have done anything about it. So she grabs the receipt tacked to her purchases and scribbles with black marker she keeps on her compartment. Before she could change her mind, Veronica saunters off her car, walks over to Logan’s and tucks her makeshift note on his wiper, sashays back to her car and hightails it out of there faster than she could say “misguided attempts at maturity.”

 

***

 

The minute she gets home, Veronica almost regrets it. _Almost_ is the operative word, because she thinks she’s done alright; at the very least, she didn’t come charging like bull, or God forbid, write _‘ownage’_ because that would have been really juvenile.

She doesn’t know how to feel about it, honestly. She’s always understood the fact that being with Logan is an all-consuming, all-or-nothing affair. But knowing and accepting are two distinct concepts, and Veronica’s not sure if this – Obsession? Desperation? – is one of the things that aren’t ever going away between them.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to obsess long because after half an hour of nervous fidgeting, she hears Logan’s footsteps approaching her doorstep.

Veronica inhales sharply, ready to explain with some variation of _hey, honey, I legitimately purchased something and wasn’t following you to catch you, but you better start ‘fessing up or so help me_ , when she glances up to find Logan on her doorway carrying a grocery bag with, she could easily guess, milk cartons and, because he’s a such a big Boy Scout now, a big box of Honey Nut Cheerios.

She was ready to apologize, she really was. Maybe it’s a residual knee-jerk reaction when standing off with perceived enemies, but she freezes at the spot, searching his face for, what—guilt? Misplaced anger? Veronica scolds herself immediately because this is not a police line-up, and due process is a right, even with men thrice-wrongfully-accused of murder. Especially with men thrice-wrongfully-accused of murder.

“Uh,” Logan says, and Veronica softens at that. She’s even a sucker for Logan Echolls’s monosyllabic fillers, apparently. Logan looks lost, like he’s taking a moment before he recites his spiel, and if there’s anything remotely criminal here, it’s his clavicle peeking at the undone two buttons of his white cotton Henley. He sounded just like old Logan there, Veronica thinks, his heart on his well-fondled sleeves she actually feels guilty of the entire situation all over again.

“Hey,” she smiles with, she hopes, a proper mix of awkwardness and apology. Veronica stands up, shuffling her feet a bit, but they appear to be rooted at the hardwood floor beneath her. Weird. “Funny story... you know how I was sight-seeing a bit after picking up grocery this afternoon—”

She isn’t even aware of the particular mechanics of it, but Logan’s just there in front of her and cuts her off from recounting her embarrassing attempt at maturity and envelops her in an embrace, and _thank God_. He’s always, _always_ crossing invisible thresholds between them. They stay huddled there, vertically tangled for a while with the ambient sound of the fan whirring a white noise in the background, even with the paper bag containing milk and cereals pressed to her back.

“Wow, if you’re that glad for the grocery I picked up, you should have just said—“

“Shush,” he says and hugs her tighter.

“Did you _shush_ me? Did you just shush _me_? After I bought that frozen yoghurt that you swooned over with last week?”

Logan just chuckles. After a beat of silence, she muffles a shy “I’m sorry” to his chest where her head is currently buried in, and Logan sounds bewildered in reply. “What? No, don’t... Veronica. You have nothing to be...” he trails off, and punctuates the thought by tucking her hair to the back of her ear and planting a kiss to her forehead.

They must have lain there for quite some time when Logan quotes with a snicker, “ _‘We’re all out of milk, you know the drill, Lieutenant’_ , really, Veronica?”

“Well, to be fair, you _do_ know the drill, Lieutenant. And we _were_ actually out of milk.”

“Uh huh. So while you were at the dairy section, you bought the frozen yoghurt but forgot the milk.”

“Yeah, I was on a rebellious streak. I shouted ‘fuck milk,’ grabbed the yoghurt, and bailed. You’re practically in a relationship with Evil Knievil here.”

“Oh yeah, I’m looking forward to you performing some stunts later, but uh, can you, uh, move a bit? Can’t think straight when you’re on top of me...” Veronica genuinely laughs, moves off Logan’s lap where she’s currently situated and sits beside him in the sofa. Logan catches her hand so she can’t move away far enough and then curls his fingers in the spaces in between hers.

“So, this is harder than I thought,” Logan says.

Veronica can’t help but blurt out “That’s what she said!” Logan’s face is caught between giggling and glaring. “…As an empowered 21st century woman making an educated choice on which career to take,” she finishes off with a sly grin.

“So, you sure I can’t plead the fifth on this one?” he asks, and Veronica takes a moment to think about it, but decides in spades that there is only so much that can change in a person, even in a decade.

“Too late for that,” she says.  “And besides, we may or may not have an attorney-client relationship going on, so, you’re safe with me, buddy.”

Another stretch of silence overtakes them, and then Logan squeezes her hand, as if gathering strength from her before talking.

“I want you to know I actually was with Dick earlier, because  he recommended me some people, uh, old secretary of his dad’s...and that I’d actually been thinking about it for some time, but this is the first time, I swear, and, you might not be sure you’d—“

“The elocution on you, Logan, just wow,” she giggles, but aborts it at the abject look akin to constipation on Logan’s face. “Sorry,” she says. “Carry on, soldier.”

Logan even manages to not comment on the sheer amount of army-related jokes she’s throwing, so she decides to take his lead and sobers up.

“We were looking at houses,” he says in a breath, and she can feel him relaxing while air left her in a swoop. She remains still, stunned, because she wasn’t taking any of this seriously, not really. Seconds ago, she couldn’t imagine a worst case scenario from Logan’s detour on the way home that would serve to surprise her as much.

“O-kay...” Veronica says, slowly comprehending. “Is this maybe for real investment of sorts?”

“It could be,” Logan nods, his voice steady now, his trained composure making an impressionable demo. “But also, for personal reasons. I was looking for a house for us to move in together to.”

Veronica feels a surge of irritation at the direction their conversation is going, straining her voice as she speaks. “I don’t know what you mean, because the last time I checked, my dirty laundry and your dirty laundry are in the same basket and if that isn’t the definition of togetherness, it should be.”

“I was just looking, Veronica, and I didn’t want to pressure you by asking you to do that with me.  The last thing I want to do is pressure you, and that’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” he says, tilting his head to rest it on the sofa. Logan stares at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple tight with tension while he explains. “I didn’t want to be the asshole and ask this from you when I’m hardly around.”

“And hell if I ever thought of it before, I’m hardly ever the picket-fence type,” he says, his eyes downcast. He lifts his free forearm to card his fingers through his spiky protracted hair. “Nothing was really keeping me here. It didn’t really matter where I ended up when I’m on shore, and Neptune was convenient, so that’s why I kept coming back.” He pauses to glance at her. “But now you’re here, and it’s like I can _see_ it.”

Logan’s eyes fixes on her, and Veronica couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. “I’m only like this when I’m with you, and this – what we have – is not... casual for me, I don’t…” Logan trails off and lets out breath Veronica didn’t know he was holding.  “We’re the opposite of casual, if you ask me and I don’t want to pretend any longer that we are.”

Veronica waits before she answers, biting her cheek in the process, tamping down the protest surging up her throat. This is real for her too, she thinks. Going home at night to find the bed covers wrinkled on one side, the stack of Hemingways and Carvers on the nightstand, the busted bulb on her living room lamp getting inadvertently fixed—they’re definitive proof that there’s an actual breathing, sentient person living with her. Seeing Logan the first thing in the morning and being with him the last thing before sleeping means _they_ are real. Logan buying her milk and Cheerios –and the memory of Logan humming  ‘Let’s get Cheerios, Cheerios” to Olivia Newton-John while eating Cheerios just this morning—is so irrefutably real to her that Logan’s assertion seems so ridiculous to her that she suddenly gets an irrational urge to laugh.  But she doesn’t, as it might not be beneficial to her point. Veronica studies Logan beside her: he’s holding her hand, and he’s adamant and hopeful, painfully real.

So after a long pause, she says, slowly. “This is real for me too, Logan.”

“I know,” he says.

 _That’s a non-sequitur_ , Veronica wants to say, but she doesn’t want to risk it. The thing is, Veronica gets it. It has been 11 months since they found each other again and five months since Logan has been back and they have found each other again, always, but she knows the way they do it isn’t exactly healthy. They aren’t the silent type but they aren’t the best at talking about their relationship. It’s another way how being with Logan makes her feel like a child that find relationships and feelings icky and disgusting. She can’t help it; avoidance has been her lifelong friend in case of doubt. “Then what—“

“I’m not asking you to do anything. I just, I wanted you to know I’m in this. I’ll be here with you as long as you want me to.”

That’s not entirely true, Veronica thinks, but she isn’t indefatigable, and she recognizes a no-win scenario if she ever saw one. Sometimes, it isn’t always the best idea to cut right straight to the heart. Logan’s hand that wasn’t holding her were busy tracing the ridged gray stripes on the sofa,

“It’s just a house, Veronica. And on a total disclosure basis, I just looked, okay? I didn’t touch. Wasn’t planning on buying ASAP or anything.”

“Yeah, well, that kinda defeats the idea of _together_ , Logan.” She replies with an apologetic, lopsided smile. When she thinks about this conversation later, it’s the _total disclosure_ that undoes her. Total disclosure hadn’t exactly been on the list of warranties included in a relationship with Logan Echolls, and it floors her that here they are, holding hands while arguing about looking into houses, and Logan is being honest about what he wants.

God, they are old, Veronica thinks, and maybe someone forgot to send her a memo when that occurred exactly.

“Alright, Fergie, we’re doing it. Look, but no touch, okay?”

And if Logan’s entire face lights up at her acquiescence like Veronica expected it would, maybe that’s one of the perks of saying yes she was really looking forward to.

“No no no no drama.”

 

***

 

Things settle into a routine.

Veronica spends most of her time in at the office, but that proves to be an exercise in patience and futility. The only cases she’s handled for the month all turned out to be a bust; no, Anton, your roommate can’t care less about your blog, let alone to want to assassinate you. And nice try Grandma Kuzzio, but the gentleman your grandson Kelly took home for the holidays isn’t a terrorist. Veronica figures she could probably handle Mars Investigations by herself until the holiday is over, so she lets Mac off the hook early.

Alone time is supposedly for her little knitting project, but Veronica doesn’t think she’s prepared to suffer further hits to her domestic abilities just yet. She leaves the office way early herself, anyway.

Mid-afternoons for the past week had been spent house hunting with Logan. Logan is currently on shore  duty for another ten months. Sometimes they have late lunch together and sometimes they go to a drive-thru, but Logan always picks her up from work and they pick up Dick Sr.’s old secretary who’s in the real estate business now and look at houses that are for sale. Everywhere. They didn’t establish rules as to which houses are off limits or not, because they’re generally just looking.

They find, however, that they both prefer ones with an upstairs, those that have lots of windows are very welcome, and that the beach definitely has to be near, but not too near to prevent the influx of sand through the AC units. Veronica supposes these are preferences in reaction to having to live a stuffed apartment for four years in law school, and it’s Neptune so she might as well exploit its most desirable features. But it would be sweet to chill in the back porch – as she insists it will have, and not a pool, as per Logan’s counter-argument – after a long day with cold beer and maybe barbecue. There’s no rush, they can decide (much, much) later. There’s a sort of comfort in that.

Veronica realizes she kind of… likes it. Loves it, even.

Not just the free foot rubs she gets when they collapse in her apartment at night; it feels as if there’s a doorway that’s opened between them. Odd, because out of everyone she knew, it’s Logan who she has opened most of her doors for, and she didn’t know she could open anymore. It’s light and easy, like they have agreed on a truce on a war she didn’t know they were having. The houses were nice to look at too, but it’s not as if she can afford any of these without Logan, but she can’t deny that the space in the oven for an actual oven wouldn’t hurt. And a big enough bookcase to house Logan’s seemingly endless supply of paperbacks that seem to inundate her apartment nowadays. Or real hardwood floors.

They had even thoroughly tested the durability of the walls on one occasion, not that she would ever admit it to anyone.

“We have to test the walls,” Logan whispers conspiratorially at her. “Or at least the posts.”

"Well we can't have our posts crumbling down on us, can we?"

They had been particularly impressed by the house that particular Thursday afternoon. The house was near the warehouse district, about 20 minutes’ drive from the pier but a shy corner away from the fancy yacht club. It was a surprising find, an old restored two-floor structure remarkably distinct from the dingy industrial buildings of the town. It was enclosed in a discreet gate. Veronica was surprised she hadn’t noticed it before when passing through; admittedly, she’s never had the reason to admire houses before now.

They were alone at the time, after being bailed upon by Leonard, the ex-Secretary-turned-very trusting real estate agent, after profusely apologizing that he has to close a deal for a very insistent client. Veronica suspects that Leonard was starting to feel their lack of gravitas over choosing a house.

It was nearing dusk again, and the golden glow of the sinking sun permeated the room through tall windows and illuminated the wide plank floors, waxed and gleaming. They were at the bedroom upstairs, and hanging over them was a brass chandelier in the foyer, original sconces on the white walls. Warm ocean breeze entered the room at the open French doors, leading onto a stone terrace, its ivy-coloured balustrade curving around the back of the house. The view was of the harbor, with boats dancing on the gray waves in the distance.

She didn’t even dare do a whistle at how grandiose everything seemed, bathed in the warm afternoon light. On most levels, she’d like to believe, Logan and her were operating on the same frequency now. It’s a life skill, she thinks, that might have taken them nine years to fix. It was worth it.

True enough, Logan was leaning at the foyer, his eyes just burning at hers, wanting, needing, eviscerating at the same time. She didn’t dare utter a word and just reached, and if his words failed him for the next several minutes, she didn’t mind in the very least.

 

***

 

When a tour is with Leonard (“Please, call me Len. I insist.”), it was obviously a different experience.

Aside from the fact that, of course, Len does not encourage any kind of sexual congress on any surface in the house – not unless they bought it – Veronica hopes, Len moves proficiently through the house’s features. “Here's the kitchen,” he says in a sing-song tone. “Sub-Zero fridge, Garland stove, tiles brought back from Italy... Look at this great center island, the Jenn-Air grill...“

“That’s gonna be great for your sandwich-making skills, babe,” Veronica chortles, craning her head to where Logan was thoughtfully examining the sleek, black induction cooktop on the kitchen while Len chatters away ahead of them.

“You know it. One of these days, I’m gonna branch out to paninis. Just you wait,” Logan says, affecting mock seriousness.

“A-h," Veronica drawls.  So that explains all the Cheerios this morning."

“Only because they don’t make Fruit Loops like they used to. And a magician never reveals his secret.” Logan makes a disapproving, clucking noise with his tongue as he continues to examine the countertops. The man actually _hums_ while caressing the tiles.

“Oh, honestly Logan, get a room,” Veronica laughs, bumping Logan and then walking along to follow Len to the other room. She doesn’t get very far before she hears Logan’s phone ring. She tries to tune in to his conversation while fiddling with knobs and admiring the Italian tiles, but it’s mostly just silence and formal agreement in opportune moments.  Logan rejoins her later and she watches his cues: stiff, agitated, and she doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to know yet.

"You asked about bedrooms. We'll go up to the second floor in a minute. You'll just adore the master suite up there, but let me show you this first.” Len continues to babble ceaselessly, and Veronica feels guilty for not sharing his enthusiasm with the guy.

“Do we have to?” Logan says. He’s cheery and bright all of a sudden, and Veronica swallows the trepidation she feels rising out of her like bile, like she hasn’t seen him deflect this way a million times before. “I mean, we’ll only ever need the bedroom,” he leers at her with a wink. Two can play this game, she thinks.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t sully my virtues in front of Len. He’d think you want me for something other than my brain.”

The ride back to her apartment is silent and looming. Veronica looks straight ahead, only clutching her bag in a vice grip, her knuckles straining under the tension that suffocates them even with the top of the BMW down.

There aren’t any preliminaries the minute they stepped inside the apartment.

Veronica’s voice is silent and seething. “Just tell me, Logan.”

Logan shuts the door behind him and faces her, looking pained and exasperated and exhausted all at once.

“My detailer offered..” He sighs, takes a step closer. “I signed up for a reserve program, Individual Augmentee? I- They want me back for training to Fort Jackson after Christmas. And then it’s pre-deployment after that.”

The silence that ensues is thick and sharp enough to cut.

“You didn’t even think to tell me?” Veronica asks angrily. 

“Jesus, Veronica, sailing away is kind of part of the job description," Logan says, his irritation showing in his hands, motioning as if making an important point.

"I know that!"

Veronica is shouting now because Veronica knows this, has spent the larger part of the year just missing him, but she’s only beginning to fully understand it now—the extent of it, the immensity of loss. Already, her mind is racing to a million miles an hour to worst possible outcomes of this.  Life had made sure Veronica is utterly familiar with Murphy’s Law, and ever since this whole affair started, she has been preparing herself for every single variation of gravity pulling his plane down. She’s furious at Logan for not giving her a fair warning, and she’s furious at herself for closing her damn eyes, letting her guard down.

Logan steps forward, looking more tired than ever, weary, resigned

"Do you really, Veronica?" His voice is a whisper, a low wounded whine. "Do you really? Then tell me what we're doing here, why are we fighting?”

Quietly, Veronica turns around, grabs her keys and walks out the door.

 

***

 

She staggers outside the apartment and into the cool air outside, letting out the breath she didn't know she was holding.

On the third step down, she slows down, and on the fifth, she stops.

Veronica just sits down right then and there. It takes a minute before her hands to steady and her heartbeat to settle down. She wraps her arm, then, around her bent legs.

 _I knew that_ , she thinks.

It's a minute later when her surroundings manifest itself: A Year Without Santa is playing on the TV in maximum volume at the old couple’s room on the ground floor, lamp lights are open on some windows, and, if she stays quiet enough and listen, the soporific rhythm of the waves swallowing up the shore can be heard in the distance.

She has serious fight-or-flight issues, Veronica thinks. It's one that has never changed, and it has served her well through the years. It has also brought its own pitfalls, especially when it comes to dealing with Logan. She's brought a new dimension to running away from her feelings, and Veronica almost laughs at the tragedy of it. Nine years and distance and deaths and disasters later— she's still running away. She feels tired, all of a sudden, like all the fight has caught up with her. She's aware of her need to escape but she doesn't want to run very far. This is one of the two things she is sure of by now; the second thing is that no matter how long she stays out, Logan will be there, inside, waiting for her to come back.

She can't even stay out long, not that she wants to. But it’s foolish to think for a minute that bygones actually mean bygones because they can’t be where they are right now without acknowledging where they were then, and who they are right now because on their best days, it makes her fucking proud to just remain standing with the same room as Logan, but on their worst, it’s like this: a rehash of every stupid fight and a reminder of how people could only change so much. She remembers all the fight they have had before and all the variations of her running and Logan waiting, and wonders why can’t she just stay fucking _stay_.

She remembers _you’re out of my life forever—_ and knows, at least, that this isn’t that. They’re a far cry from it.

So Veronica sits there, even until the old couple downstairs turns off the TV and turns off the lights. She stays still.

It is minutes or hours later when Veronica hears a door swinging open and close, followed by footsteps approaching the stairs. Because she is a sap, she knows from the light yet deliberate strides that they are Logan’s. He stops at the top stairs as he sees her. She doesn’t look behind her but he hears him jog back to their room and come back to descend the stairs to sit down beside her. Their shoulders and their jeans-clad thighs touch together, his right to her left, connecting but never really parallel. They are an oddly-proportioned couple, Veronica thinks not for the first time. Logan is quiet for a while, seemingly lost in his own soliloquy as well.

"I'm sorry. I should have told you when we got back together,” he says after some time.

Veronica doesn't know what to say to that, so she just nods.

Neither speaks for quite some time. The waves can be heard louder now, but there is no rush.

Finally, Logan nudges her shoulder and looks at her. “I’m going for a drive. Want to come with?”

 

***

 

They drive incessantly for some time, silence overtaking but not quite suffocating. For a moment, Veronica thinks about cracking a joke about the profitability of driving therapy in LA, but sagely doesn't.

Her frustrations have not dissipated either, but a part of her itches to poke fun at her outburst and make light of it. She has been internally debating the merits of doing so when they arrive at a familiar destination.

Logan pulls over the sidewalk and gets off, with Veronica following fast to catch up to him.

Veronica tugs his arms back before he could push open the gate. "I'd like to keep my B and E record to a minimal, Echolls," she snarls.

He half turns towards her and gives her an amused laugh. "That's cute," Logan says, and punches the security code nonchalantly and pushes in.

The tall two-floored white house is as effervescent as it was in daylight when Veronica first saw it. The white overcoat is illuminated by the moon, and the glass mullioned windows give an ethereal sheen under the subdued lights of the night.

Veronica gets hold of Logan's wrist this time. "I'm serious. We shouldn't be here," she says. She feels confusion at the entire situation.

"Come on," Logan says, holding her hand and leading her into the doorway.

It doesn't immediately register that Logan knows the security code to this house they checked out last week, but it does, adding further to her list of curiosities about this endeavour.

There's a stone fireplace all the way across the living room, which, truthfully speaking, is a bit pretentious and overboard, mainly because it's SoCal, and winter is never really winter here. But there’s a whoosh of cold air permeating the room from when they entered and from the way the two of them touching but are apart. She's grateful for the warmth that it brings now, as Logan lights it up using a remote control he grabbed from nowhere. He motions for her to sit down at the floor, and he sits beside her and then rolls his head back and lay down on the floor.

“I really liked the hardwood floors last time. Very cool on my back,” Logan coos.

Veronica feels a blush creeping in. “What are we doing here?”

“Hey let’s play a Two Truths and One Lie. You know, I tell you three things, and you tell me which of them is the lie. Very complicated, I know.” Logan is, apparently, still not above prevarication. She grits her teeth but she lay down a good one and a half feet beside him anyway.

“I’ll start,” Logan says. “Let’s see, I uh, am a jet jockey for the Navy, moved to Neptune when I was 12, and my favourite fruit are pears.”

Veronica glares at him. “Obviously, the pears. This better have a damn good point, Logan.”

“Huh. You know me so well, would you look at that? The game _is_ the point, Veronica. Your turn. No? Okay more fun for me,” Logan removes the arm tucked under his head to trace patterns on her palm. “My favourite food is baked clams,” he pauses, and continues softly. “I’ve been in love with you since I was 19, and I put a bid on this house this morning.”

“Why would you do that?” Veronica asks, her voice quivering in disbelief. “That's precisely our problem here, I can't—“ She moves to get up and manages to sit up, but Logan’s fingers stop tracing her hand and tangles it with hers instead. He sits up so that they are facing each other. There is weariness to them both, but none of them are willing to back down.

“You said you weren’t buying. You lied to me.”

“And I also told you it was just a house. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“But it does, Logan. It does! You know this, I know this, so don’t play dumb. It's one thing for us to be playing house and another for you to actually buy one.”

Logan flinches. “Is that what this is for you?”

“No, no it's not,” Veronica says, quick to assuage. She takes a calming breath but there is no relieving the restlessness she feels. She doesn’t want their story to be like this: a circuitous encore of Logan asking too much for something she isn’t prepared, doesn’t know how to give. “But I don’t understand this need to push this... why can't it be just the way we are? It works for us. Why can't it be like this?”

“I put a bid because I like it. More than the hardwood floors, I mean. And I saw that you liked it. Also, it has the sentimental value going for it, so...

“I don't have a house, if you've noticed. I didn't really see the need; I've never been a homebody, as you know. I'm more than glad to bunk in with you. I… I’ll go wherever you are, you know. So long as you have a duvet, I'm set.”

He lay back again. He didn’t let go of her hand.

“It's really is just a house. It'll be a nice reminder of you. Never had that either. We didn't exactly exchange bracelets back then.”

Veronica quite doesn’t know what to say; it’s infuriating and unnerving in the least. She thinks of Logan's picture, carried over from phone to phone. A house, though, is different. This entire situation is Logan in a nutshell: right on the sentiment and wrong on the execution.

“And Jesus, I hate this. I didn’t mean to throw a pity party, so I apologize for that. But,” he pauses. Veronica feels him lift his neck and tilt his head to look at her. “I can’t exactly pretend this isn’t what I’ve dreamed of, Veronica.”

She looks back at him steadily, the ire in her eyes betraying the ache that has been brimming since all of these things came to surface. “Let's stop pretending you aren't shipping off a minute later and I'll be here left alone until your adult version of a recess.”

Veronica can see the pain cross his features, but she can’t take words back and she wouldn’t if she could.

“That’s just it, Veronica. That’s… ”  

Logan looks like he wants to flail or bust out theatrics and not even his military discipline covers up for that fact, Veronica thinks. But he can’t, and they’re sitting there on their asses, on the floor, on a house she didn’t know he bought for sentimental reasons, and they’re having it out like they should have months ago before he left her for some godawful months when she was only starting to crawl back from a decade-long comma. And now he’s doing it over again, and it’s fine, really. She closes her eyes momentarily, gathering herself. “No, actually, don’t,” Veronica says. “You go do what you have to, right? I get it. Doesn’t mean you have to mark what you—”

"Don't,” Logan cuts her off and wheezes, as if in pain. “Don’t do that. Don't stay because it’s your understanding of what you're supposed to do. You just do what you want because you want to, and don't do anything you don't want because you feel like you have to, alright?" Logan’s pleading look makes it worse. "Staying with me shouldn’t have to be an obligation.”

“And I don’t want to feel guilty for my job. It is what it is. I don’t want you to feel resigned to this. I don’t want to say I won’t keep hurting you because I can’t guarantee that. I'd want to say we should quit while we're ahead, but God, Veronica," Logan says with so much exasperation you can feel them coming right out of his breath. "I can't lose you. We're too far ahead from this."

She feels an odd sort of relief, because there isn’t an _if you can’t accept that/this isn’t going to work_ there. She doesn’t want to quit this time either, but it’s a difficult thing—accepting. Half the time, she's a countdown timer marking the days, waiting for him to come back, and when he's here, she's a day planner filling her days with work trying to ignore the number of days he'll still be here. It’s difficult accepting the facts, as is the need, the desperation, to make him stay.

Because if she loses people, she’d rather be in charge. It's almost terrifying how much Logan matters, but it would be incapacitating to be without Logan altogether.

“I’m afraid of your job, but I don’t want to quit too. The distance gets to me. And I love Dick Casablancas.”

Logan blinks, and it takes a moment for him to realize she’s playing their game.

“Okay,” he says, straightens up to face her again. “That’s— okay.” He shifts so he is behind her but not hugging her. But his thighs are on either side of hers and both of his arms are grazing hers. Not touching but touched.

“That’s normal, you know,” Logan says.

“Normal? Have you met me?”

“Your height? Certainly not. But many people experience the same thing. It’s not an _us_ thing, you get that right?”

“An _us_ thing being murders and kidnapping and arrests? Suspiciously, time and distance is also becoming an _us_ thing, Logan.”

“Yeah, but, it’s just something I do, Veronica,” Logan says, explaining more with his flailing arms than with anything. “I don’t want to count it as a motivation, you know? It’s not my life, but it helped me. It’s something I do but it isn’t who I am. You’re my motivation. You're who defines me.” He chokes a little, but Veronica is too far gone to notice. “It doesn’t change anything. I’d rather not, but I can retire tomorrow or in a decade but I’d always come back to you. This doesn’t change us. It’s still me. And this is me saying I choose you. And I won’t force you to but I hope you’ll come around.”

There weren’t very many conversations Veronica wouldn't fight back with her arsenal of barbs and her ferocious bite, but there are battles she’d keep at bay if she must. She fears and fears for Logan when he’s gone but she’s no hypocrite, and she can dispense if he can.

And it unsettles her a little because maybe the idea of this mature man scares her a little. Because what if Logan is miles ahead of her, and she turns out to have turned 40 when she was 18 and it's all downhill from there?

“Jesus, Logan. When did you get all grown up?”

“Stop that. You know it's still me. Half the time I still wait for you to get bored with me.”

Veronica is confounded at that.

“You're badass. I'm always going to want to impress you a little. “

“I am not,” Veronica automatically says, her nose wrinkling in denial.

“Have you met me?” Logan says. “I'm always gonna be a little bit scared that you'll change your mind, and I'm going to keep hanging on hoping it’s me you want. Not gonna change my M.O. this far in the game. See? Still your basic California lifer.”

It's so simple and it was so him to be simple. He closes the distance between them, his chest to her back, his arms wrapping around her torso like a lifeline.

A beat goes by and she savors the moment and the feel of his proximity before she breaks the silence. “You didn't have to do all this to hang on to me, you know. I'm still here. I chose to be here.”

“Yeah,” Logan says. He says it but Veronica not entirely sure of how much he believes it.

“We’re the absolute worst, you know that? The timing, I can’t even begin, Logan.”

“Hm,” he says at the hair at the base of her nape. “Horrendous.”

Veronica tugs his sleeve a little. “I'm sorry, okay? Might have freaked out a little.”

“You think?”

“A house, though, Logan? A house! Ach.” She lets her tongue out to evidence her disgust.

Veronica can feel his smile on her neck. “I meant it though. Consider the house the selfie we never took.”

She snorts. “Always the snob.”

“Why yes, yes, I am. Glad you noticed.”

“So, same old stuff huh.”

Veronica thinks there are words for this, that will dispel doubts and cast out fears, etcetera, because as far as she understands, that is the bottom line here. She has never really been a fan of catch-and-throw phrases but she could bust them out without sweating, sure. This time, she wishes she could just spit it out, whispering or screaming or waving a white flag just to account for all the longing she felt and will inescapably feel again and again. But for all of her fears and her need and to say to Logan even a fraction of how much she feels, words seem inadequate, too prosaic somehow.

Veronica twists and crawls her way to climb on top of him, stuffing her face at the crook of his neck, her limbs loose and flaccid on her side.

She tenses up a bit. She goes the whispering route, but only wisps of air come out. She grunts at her pathetic attempt, but Logan just holds her closer.

“All the talking tires me out,” she huffs to his neck.

Logan snorts. Veronica feels this reverberating on her own chest, like ripples of warmth bursting to life beneath her. This man, she thinks, is a man I would pick curtains for. And God knows she hates curtains in general and she hates IKEA, but Veronica knows she would totally do curtains for this man.

“Hey, it’s your turn by the way,” she says, propping her elbows on his chest.

“Oh yeah, uh. My new job is Air Control duty, just logistical passenger movements and combat support. Otherwise, I fly a F/A-18F Super Hornet jets for the USS Truman. And Breaking Point and Beyond the Breaking Point are my favourite movie sequels of all time.” He says the last part with a grin, so Veronica knows he’s not winding down his lethargic path.

“I have once been dubbed Veronica Mars, liberator of lobsters,” Veronica says, affecting a pensive expression. “I was born in Neptune, California, and I want us to have Christmas together in this house.”

She was not, in fact, born in Neptune, California. She knows Logan knows this.

Logan’s levity stills. Veronica sees he’s on the verge of snapping into panic mode so she cuts him short. “Let's have Christmas here,” she says with all the seriousness and glee she could muster to say with only her eyes and her smile.  “I mean, I’m ready if you are. You can't have the monopoly on maturity around here.”

“It's not actually a competition, Veronica.” Panic sweeps over him. Logan tries to rise up but she braces her palms to the floor to either side of his head and pins him down so.

“Yeah but, think of all the shelf space we'll have…” Veronica sees Logan’s intake of breath in preparation for another diatribe, but she knows his hesitations, which is as much her problem as hers now. “And I want to, Logan.”

He gives her a long look, as if he's trying to read her.  “I meant it,” she adds because she does, and Veronica trusts Logan to figure her out anyway. “I do.”

If this is the phenomenon known as faith, Veronica thinks, then at least she knows it isn’t blind.

 

***

 

Veronica’s apartment at Dog Beach is an assortment of oddities. There are lamps and there is shag carpeting, old knick-knacks she snagged from her dad’s apartment. She’s never been a fan of packing stuff. For a methodical person, she is a mess when it comes to sorting her stuff. And for a person who’s can out-cold the Arctic region, her apartment is surprisingly a nest of sentimental memorabilia.

Logan helps her pack, of course, and evenings are spent on the floor with a sea of half-full boxes and dishevelled cabinets and shelves.

She doesn’t give up the lease. Instead, she gives it to Wallace, because the apartment is practically a treasure find.

And even though packing is something she always procrastinated about, there’s always a feeling of accomplishment at the end. It feels like an end of an era. The emptiness of the apartment beseeches her, but when she searches herself for feelings of attachment, she finds it’s memories shared with Logan there she’ll always associate with that room with fondness.

 _Huh_ , she thinks, and closes the door.

 

***

 

“Structural integrity, what now?” Veronica asks.

There may be cuter sights than seeing one’s navy aviator boyfriend staring with consternation at his now-mangled Christmas tree like he's done it great wrong, the pruning shears hanging heavily from one hand. But for now, Veronica can’t think of another.

“It’s avant-garde. Don’t hate.” Logan huffs in reply, not veering his eyes off the tree.

“Still. Hold off on the ice, Edward Scissorhands,” Veronica laughs.

“Alas, it is done,” Logan says after a pause, making a grandiose gesture of opening his arms wide to the heavens as if in surrender, dropping the shears to floor for dramatic effect. _There’s a science to this, Veronica,_ he said earlier, and now he’s ceded that to biblical references after botching the tree. “You done there, buddy?”

Hunter looks up from wiping the old Christmas decorations Veronica smuggled from her father’s house.

“Wait! Some of these are really dusty,” says Hunter, his tiny pink tongue poking out in concentration while cleaning the worn Christmas balls.

“Well aren’t you the little Santa’s Elf,” Logan says. After their initial confrontation in which Hunter’s nose scrunched up in an attempt to understand ‘boyfriend,’ he and Logan hit it off pretty quickly, in a way. Hunter gets off on being the protective brother she’s never had, even if he is 23 years younger than her.  She allows it because, _Rory_ , and it’s extremely cute and funny. Hunter drills Logan a lot from where he’s been for the past few months to what he has for a job. Logan frowns before he tries to explain and it really looks like he’s trying to prove himself to a six-year old child. Veronica can’t decide who’s more adorable.

The whole Hunter thing had been both their ideas. It’s actually the 23rd, but they’d both wanted Hunter to experience Christmas with them, even if it is a day away from Christmas Eve. There are worse things to happen to a kid than having two Christmas dinners, right? The whole scheme is totally not for the benefit of two Christmas-deprived adults.

Veronica beams at Hunter. “That totally counts for at least three snickerdoodles,” she says. She’d been trying to cut the sweets back on her two boys. After Lianne dropped Hunter off early in the morning, they had a hearty greasy breakfast of eggs, sausages, hash browns, and pancakes while the smell of her infamous baked goods wafted from the oven.

Hunter looks up and beams back at her. “Can I have it now?” Logan chuckles and slumps beside Hunter in the couch and whispered in a low voice, “Hey don’t sell yourself short. That’s worth, like, a gingerbread man. Trust me on this.” He throws Veronica a look and says, “Sweetie, you know you can't buy everyone with cookies, right?” He then proceeds to flip the TV on.

“It’s worked great so far,” Veronica says with a huff, and walks to the kitchen. It takes a lot to get used to—the treading towards to the kitchen rather than just a stride or a hop.  But the induction cooktop is doing wonders for her cooking, and the spacious countertop isn’t as spacious now after it’s been cluttered with all the things she didn’t know she kept in her apartment and since Logan introduced her to the wonders of the food processor.  It’s her apartment spread out, like it has given up being tense and finally settled down.

Veronica dips a finger in one of the chocolate gingerbread man in the wire rack to check the temperature, which have yet to cool down, apparently. There isn’t actually much to do; the turkey she haggled with tooth and nail for at the last minute is already sweltering in the oven for one and a half hours, waiting to be flipped after another half hour. There is, however, the matter of fancy mac and cheese to be prepared—because it’s Hunter’s favourite and makes her miss her dad surprisingly a bit less—but that has to wait until the turkey is done. She pulls the potatoes, destined for eventual mashing, out of the shopping bags she and Logan brought home yesterday and places them on a colander to rinse.  She hears the volume on the TV climb up a notch and hears a dubious musical Christmas cartoon playing in the living room. _Wintertime’s the best, better than the rest, snowball fights, shining lights and multi-denomentional pantheistic all-inclusive seasonal fests_. Veronica laughs incredulously as she settles on the aisle to peel said potatoes.

Shuffling footsteps come nearer and Veronica doesn’t look up to know who it is. Hands settle on her waist and a kiss on her left temple.

“You better start earnin’ your keep, get those hands moving. Chop chop,” she says.

“A man finds no rest around here,” Logan says, the mirth in his eyes belying his words. He pulls out another knife, picks up from her pile and starts peeling. She returns him a smile and they work in silent companionship for a while, until Hunter marches up to demand his cookie compensation.

“You can watch me while I paint faces on them, if you want,” she says. “Meanwhile, I guess some snickerdoodles wouldn’t hurt? You,” she points at Logan. “Continue peeling.” Logan gives her a left-handed potato-burdened salute. She opens the fridge to get some eggs, lemon and sugar and proceeds to prepare the frosting.

“That’s alright,” Hunter says and plops himself in a stool, eating his cookies while watching her crack the eggs on a bowl and give fleeting glances on Logan as he peels perfect concentric strips off.  

“So, Logan,” Hunter starts coolly. Veronica fights off a guffaw. _So the interrogation continues_ , she thinks. They finally revealed Logan’s true job to Hunter just a month ago, but only after Logan had plied him with stories of being a travelling circus performer, an astronaut away on a space mission, and being a rock star on a tour. Hunter called him out on it by stubbornly asking him questions about lions and bearded ladies and “If you’re really a famous rock star, why don’t you know how to play maracas?” Logan cracked, and so they took him to the naval base in San Diego just to let him see planes aboard a ship. If Veronica didn’t know any better, she’d think Hunter actually likes Logan better than her.  “Do you cook your own food in the ship?”

“Nah-uh. We got people for that. Could have fooled you huh?” Logan exhibits his long strip of potato peel proudly.

“So you just, fly all the time?”

“Oh yeah. Well, not all the time. That’s not possible, because, you know, Newton’s Law of Gravity and everything.” Logan falters in his answer and throws Veronica an apologetic smile _,_ but Hunter just nods, as if taking time to absorb the information.

“He means,” Veronica says, throwing back a raised eyebrow on Logan, and then looks at Hunter. “Things up in the air must go back to earth. Like birds, see, they fly around all day and then when they get tired, they perch on a tree until they can fly back up in the air again.”

“Oh yeah, they have wings too!”

“But they don’t flap. I saw it on TV, and the wings didn’t move. Does Logan’s plane’s wings move? How do they fly?”

Logan looks at her with amusement. He zips his mouth and pretends to throw away the key, and then saunters off to find a pot to boil water.

“It’s uh,” she says. Not a stellar start, admittedly. She takes a pause to squeeze the last of her lemon in her bowl and then breathes out. Logan is turned away from them while he fills the pot he found with water from the faucet with extreme concentration but she swears she can feel evil amusement emanating from his person. “There are four forces actually at work there, Hunter.”

Logan turns his face back at them in surprise but goes back to setting the pot on the stove. Veronica clears her throat and puts her hand mixer to rest as she continues. “But basically, kiddo, the planes move really fast, you see, which makes wind flow rapidly over the wings, but which throw the air down toward the ground, generating an upward force called lift that overcomes the plane's weight and holds it in the sky. So it's the engines that move a plane forward, while the wings move it upward.”

Logan is looking at her now with startled awe and Veronica just stares back at him with all the smugness she could muster, despite the blush that creeps up her face, because she googled that on her spare time when Logan was not yet home and sometimes, and she needed to just _know_ things about him to feel secure about Logan somehow, and she just got busted.

And she’s never really appreciated how Logan has been one of the best people who understood her compulsion but had not pigeonholed her as crazy. Like, for instance, two nights ago when he accompanied her on a stakeout. Grandma Kuzzio might as well be crazy but Veronica decided to follow the grandson’s paramour in question out of pure instinct and because she’s been paid to so anyway. They had just finished unpacking in the new house and Logan decided to accompany her, since, he said, he’ll be reading a book either way, so he might as well keep her company while being boring. He never complained once, except for the quality of the coffee beans she has been buying lately. So they followed the boyfriend around town as he checked out the club scene in Neptune and settled in a parking lot smoking at 2 a.m.

And it’s a good thing that Logan did accompany her because it turned out that Kelly Kuzzio’s boyfriend burns cats in his idle time.  When it look liked he was going to do what they thought he would do right there on the parking lot, Veronica just walked in and snuck behind and tasered him, but only after the cat has been doused with vodka and the lighter had charred its ears.

Veronica didn’t even like cats but she fumed all the way from the vet clinic and drove home, because sometimes, she’s still surprised at how stupid and ugly some people are on the inside, and her job reminds her so much of that but she can’t stop, because it’s just a cat, and sometimes she saves people’s lives and she likes that.  Logan just stayed quiet on the ride home and stroked her back when she dry heaved when they got back at home. Tucked her in and held her hand.

But the point here is this: if Logan’s hankering to pilot a plane is a fraction of how much investigating is to her, then she might as well sit down and accept it. Knowing about it is the least she could do.

Hunter, for his part, just claps his hand to rid himself of snickerdoodle crumbs and says “I don’t get it.”

She pours herself a cup from the Keurig and looks Logan in the eye, Logan’s face her mirror image as the corner of her mouth quirks into a smirk. “Hope I didn’t steal your thunder, Lieutenant.”

 

***

 

She spends the entire day like a constipated person on the brink of a breakthrough.

It wasn’t the food, though. The mashed potatoes turned out to be fine and the gravy and the cranberry sauce are great. The gourmet four cheese mac and cheese was awesome, and it had better be because she’s never even heard of those cheeses before she set out to buy them. And there is an overabundance of turkey that, Veronica’s sure, will be all that they will eat for the next few days.  Even the fruitcake bought off a store was delicious.

After dinner, they exchange gifts which have been sitting under the mangled tree. It has significantly improved with lights and tinsel and the decoration Hunter had dutifully cleaned and hung.  Hunter gets a guitar, so he can be a real rock star and tour the world with him, says Logan, which confuses Hunter because he thought it has been settled that Logan is a pilot, and “ _Was he lying again, Veronica?”._ Veronica gets a framed original poster of Sunset Boulevard and she isn’t a bit ashamed that she got him candy-cane condoms which turns Logan a sputtering mess and an attractive shade of puce before hiding his gift out of sight of the kid.  They have since settled down in the living room sofa with butter popcorn and hot chocolate with an abundance of marshmallows .

“This, here, Hunter, is a Christmas staple which we all must watch at least once,” Logan says, before popping _It’s A Wonderful Life_ on the player.

“But why Logan?” Veronica sneers. “Why is this, when it has nothing to do with Christmas?”

Logan’s eyes narrows in her general direction. “Oh but it’s Christmas time, see. And it has” – he pauses, waggling his fingers for dramatic effect – “moral lessons, Veronica.”

And now the movie is over, and Hunter is curled asleep on the couch, and they’re still arguing on the merits of _It’s A Wonderful Life_ on Christmastime.

“Yeah, so I still don’t see it, because, because, aside from the tangential mention of Christmas, it assumes that seeing a righteous man being neglected is gonna make me feel better, Veronica says, pouting. “It’s just so illogical.”

“Yeah, because Santa and the reindeer are the epitome of logic,” Logan says while walking back from the kitchen to deposit mugs on the sink. “How can you not love it? You’re basically George Bailey,” he pouts, Veronica doesn’t know whether from frustration or from scooping up Hunter in his arms. She follows them as Logan walks ascends the stairs full of Hunter.

“Oh that makes me feel so much better now.”

“All I’m saying is,” Logan says, while tucking Hunter methodically in his bed. “You do good Veronica. It’s...” he trails off as and brushes past her to walk down the stairs. “It’s not an easy job but you get it done despite how sick it must make you feel inside. And this town better goddamn appreciate that, but in any case, I’m proud of you and, ugh. I’ve reached my emotional confessions quota for the year. Now where did I hide that gift…” he says nonchalantly.

“Yeah I’ll be waiting upstairs in our room if you need me,” says Veronica, wondering how feelings how it was possible for feelings already on their superlatives to intensify.

 

***

 

The first thing she thinks of when she opened her eyes is whether she’s been the victim of a physical altercation with a construction worker, because her head feels like it’s being drilled like it’s someone’s business. Her second thought, to ask Logan when exactly did he pick up his crossword addiction, because if her boyfriend is going to spend 6 out of 7 of their mornings doing something – today falling in the normal curve – she might as well know the backstory.

“Hey,” Logan says, his eyes darting towards her and then back to the crossword. He’s wearing a gray faded Hearst Drama Club t-shirt, and Veronica’s sure there’s an altogether different story with that one. “If you happen to remember the 11-letter answer for ‘Soft Cell hit with the lyric, _Once I ran to you, Now I’ll run from you’_ I might just forgive you for bailing out on me on Christmas morning.”

Her head isn’t processing anything yet, or what the hell happened last night, much more some 80s pop lyric.

“No sleeping on me on Christmas day!” He bounces like an excited 5-year old on the bed on his knees.

She groans from all the bouncy, chaotic movements. “Quit it Hunter, I’m thinking.”

“Okay, that's just weird,” Logan says, his nose scrunching in disgust. “That's just all kinds of wrong there. Say ah—“ Veronica just opens her mouth, dismissing all the jokes she could crack at that. Way too easy. She's glad to be treated like an infant sometimes. It's their dirty little secret.

He pops a pill in there - Advil, she's guessing, she's too tired to ask - and pours lukewarm water in her mouth.

“It’s _Tainted Love_ , by the way.”

“I bow down to your karaoke expertise,” Logan chuckles. “Merry Christmas Veronica,” he says, before pressing his mouth to hers.

*

It’s been only after she’s in the middle of slurping her Minestrone (“Christmas minestrone, Veronica”) which Logan apparently prepared for her while she was passed out for the better part of the morning that she remembers bits and pieces. Unlike the heathen days of post law school final days of binge drinking, no puke-stained clothes this time—a marked improvement.

“Why did you think I acknowledged your karaoke skills?” Logan smirks, snatching croutons from his own creation.

She does remember holding a microphone and drinking a lot. Mac had been there, fresh from family holiday camping, and Wallace who’d been happy to be dragged along. It’s his Holiday Prep-deflection tactics, he had said, and anything to keep him from Alicia bleaching their house like a madman is a welcome activity. Any awkward tension was imminently diffused by sufficient alcohol and tawdry music.

They stay in bed. The next time Veronica opens her eyes, it is well into the afternoon. They eat leftover turkey turned sandwiches and holiday enchiladas. Veronica receives a phone call from Keith and a surprise delivery gift from Grandma Kuzzio, to wit: another food processor.

When Veronica’s reprieve happens, there is no epic moment which precedes it.

They’re tangled in the couch like limp noodles, and Logan’s reading _Nicomachean Ethics_ out loud. “ _The wise man does not expose himself needlessly to danger, since there are few things for which he cares sufficiently; but he is willing, in great crises, to give even his life--knowing that under certain conditions it is not worth while to live…_ ” Logan trails on lazily. Veronica has stopped being surprised at his cerebral undertakings a long time ago because Logan isn’t a puzzle, she thinks. Logan isn’t a puzzle and there is no mystery waiting to be solved. There is no end point to getting to know a person; people just are. So she asked him to read, because she loves to see him reading and she’d rather hear his voice rumbling sweet and low beneath her than many Christmas songs.

Which incidentally reminds her of the night before and her attempts at a lapdance, because, _oh god, did I sing with actual choreography in front of actual people?_   She freezes at the thought but recalls in an onslaught of memories that Total Eclipse of The Heart failed to convey the seriousness of her feelings. It had, however, managed to make Mac laugh so hard her tequila sunrise almost leaked through her nose. Wallace was stoic about the whole thing and just managed to shake his head in stern disbelief as she belched “I really need you tonight!” pointedly at Logan’s direction.

When they stumbled home, she took her chance.

_“Bonnie Tyler didn’t do it for you, Logan?” Veronica says, drawling in his ear. She dropped her shoulder bag while trying to wrap herself around Logan and manoeuvre their way to the bed._

_“Okay, okay,” he says, laughing and stern at the same time. He sits on the bed and removes her leather jacket. “But you’re removing this, because you’ll hate yourself in the morning if you puke all over it.”_

_Veronica appears to contemplate this for a second before moving to straddle his lap. “I don’t think that’s how strip lap dances work, lieutenant sir.” She grabbed his hands divesting her of her jacket and places them on her hips instead, slowly swaying to imaginary music. She whispers “bright eyes, every now and then…” but was cut off by Logan’s hearty laughter._

_“Okay sugar pants, that’s enough for now. Next time we do this, I’m in charge of the song choice, okay?” Logan’s warm hands on her hips slide to her back and firmly clutch her as he moves them upwards the mattress. He wrestles her on her back and she collapses on the bed and he stands up to reach her boots and remove them. Veronica inclines her head to watch him peeling off her socks, his dedication a firm reminder, an ache in her throat wanting to be said before he stops touching her again. She closes her eyes and her world tilts a little._

_“God, Logan, how are you so—“  and then she couldn't remember the words she needed, like tender, or wise, or disgustingly romantic, or any which would facilitate her own revelations._

_When she opens her eyes, Logan was there beside her, wearily off-kilter, flushed and fond with his hair all sticky-out and without his shirt on. He bends to get the cover and waves it to cover them both up to their necks._

_"Hi," Veronica says._

_"Hi," Logan answers._

_“I’m giving you sober lap dances next time okay? Next Christmas. There will be Santa hats and ribbons involved,” she says with all the seductiveness she could muster while drunk._

_“Hm,” he says, his eyes already closed. Veronica gets an urge to shake him awake or wait until his asleep or maybe crawl under his skin; she doesn’t really know the best approach to some things. “I like sober lap dances. I can’t wait.”_

_She can’t even begin to explain, so she gives up, and it was like letting go of a cliff, all fear and resignation and relief. So she presses every part of her body to his, burrowing her head to his neck, her arms splaying on his back. She can feel Logan’s breath warm against her hair, his heart against her ear.  And then she sleeps._

“I love you,” Veronica says, feels the loss of Logan’s low voice as he stops reading.

It is a capitulation, she thinks, because she needs to say it. Because it has spread through her and took shelter in her, that there is this deep and utter certainty and that these feelings could not be contained; they had become a part of her, permanent and fixed and unmovable. And the truth is more than just being honest with somebody. It's being naked in so many ways, foregoing the pretense. It's an eject button without a parachute, a leap of faith without knowing if you’ll make it out alive.

It’s an eerily silent afternoon and the light coming in through the windows is a bit blinding, but then nobody cares. It’s petrifying and exhilarating, it makes the blood pump through his veins so fast and Veronica hears it as if it were her own. She thinks his heart is going to give out and it makes everything sharper and unfocused at the same time.

They are grinning, the corners of their mouths stretching stupidly like they were 12, sharing a private joke for the first time; like 16, a second kiss and I’ll drive you home in the backstreets; like 18, lovesick and in the moment—years of togetherness bleeding through. Being with Logan is a study in contradictions, if only to make sense of the coexistence of peace and excitement rolling off her chest, bursting out of her skin.

Veronica’s hands roam across Logan’s chest, his collarbone, drifting to the side of his face as they kiss. His book flops dejectedly on the floor as his hands curl over her hip, drags them together so that they’re tangled, kissing and gripping, and close, and Veronica doesn’t want for anything else.

 

***

 

A week later, Lt. Echolls unpacks his few belongings at his shared barracks room in Fort Jackson, California and finds a gift-wrapped package. The package contains a sweater made out of blue and green yarn, made with an indescribable pattern. There are a few slight gaps where Veronica probably got distracted. The front side hangs longer than the other sides. The accompanying note says: “It’s avant-garde. Love you.” Logan laughs.

 

***

 

Veronica finds a knitted wool scarf in her cabinet, embroidered with the quote ‘ _Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, Nothing is going to get better. It's not_ ’ and a cute little Lorax to punctuate . There is a note on top of it saying, “Not that addicted to crosswords. Love you. L”

 

#

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a Christmas fic set in February; this is a fic written last December for the **VM Holiday Gift Exchange 2014** which festered in my drive until I got to finish and post it. Or, this fic may have been posted early for VM Gift Exchange 2015, it's up to you, really. Kidding aside, my sincerest apologies goes to the amazingly awesome **lilamadison11** who deserves nothing but the best, least of all, a fic submitted in time, and to **starlightafterastorm** , our equally-awesome gift exchange mod. I can't express my grief and regrets enough over the delay of this fic. Again, so so sorry.
> 
> The fic prompt for this was: a kid or a dog and first Christmas together. I'm obviously very obstinate and problematic, and that's why there's only Hunter and a mention of a cat in this fic. Additionally, this fic was inspired by Buddy Wakefield's _In Landscape_ , which deserves a listen or ten million. The title is from _You, Doctor Martin_ by Anne Sexton, a poem that has nothing to do with being in love with your pilot boyfriend at age 29.
> 
> Comments and suggestions are welcome and appreciated. Please drop me a hello over at [Tumblr](http://0ldlace.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/allanaruth). Please don't throw virtual rocks at me.


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